


practice

by Anonymous



Category: Beto O’Rourke, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 19:11:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16918719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/





	practice

“Gun control is an imperative—“  
Beto sucks in a sharp breath as you kiss down his neck, pulling flesh to your lips and tasting the salt of his skin. He doesn’t pause for long, though. Almost unfazed, he continues— “and we owe it to our children, our teachers, our principals, everyone on both sides of the aisle...”  
You watch his Adam’s apple bob, his hands grip the arms of the chair, his legs spread the slightest bit apart. You can see the smallest movements of his trembling fingers as you unbutton his rumpled shirt and begin to suck on a nipple. “Democrats. Republicans. Independents. We need to come together and compromise as soon as possible. I believe we can put aside our differences when we realize what’s really at stake here.” He finishes the sentence smoothly— as smoothly as he can when you’re unbuckling his pants and pulling down the zipper.  
“Great. Now, women’s rights,” you demand.  
As he starts talking about the maternal mortality crisis, you take a moment to look into his lust-blown eyes with a conquering gaze. His words are practiced, erudite, but his eyes melt and beg with a hunger so strong you forget his strained voice in the background. Your hands move to take his length out of his boxers. His pants fall to the floor. Beto stalls. With his chin pressed to his neck, chest flushed under his open shirt, he looks so ravaged already. So submissive, so beholden to your touch.  
“And when they have to— shit”, he gasps, tensing against the back of the chair as your tongue laves against a vein of his throbbing cock. You pull off.  
“Keep going. How well do you know the issues?”, you tease. Beto tilts his head. He looks at you from under his lashes, imploring you to be more lenient. You quirk one brow and wait for him to continue.  
He sighs. “Travel that far to see a doctor, it’s— FUCK!” he shouts. He throws his head back as you take as much of him as you can into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip and all of his sensations are clouded. He is only you, only your mouth, only your control right now. He’s a hot live-wire, hard and pulsing in your hands. He’s nerve ending after nerve ending revealing themselves in painful pleasure. As he drops his jaw, quickly taking it back up to bite his lip, he gives up the game. There’s no more congressional race, no more competition except the play between your domination and his yielding, vulnerable body. His body glistens with a sheen of sweat. You lick up the pre-come that beads at the head of his cock, moving fast and cruel. Beto arches his back. Flattening his shoulder blades against the back of the chair, he squeezes his eyes shut. He lets out little “ah ah ahs”. As his pants and grunts get louder, you slow down. He’s given up the game but it’s too early to give up the fun. You stop. He looks at you, dazed, wrecked, cheeks flushed and jaw slack. You rise up on the balls of your feet and press two fingers to his lips.  
“Suck.”  
Though drained of energy, he obliges. No words from this loquacious, voracious man. Just a glassy-eyed, blissful gaze. You sit back down. You bring his left leg up to the armrest, pressing it towards his chest, seeing how your man flexes. You appraise his suppleness, the work of hours with you alone. Leaving his leg against the side of the chair, you admire how open he is. It’s more than just the spread of his body. But you rub your thumbs against his inner thighs and he tenses up. You take his length into your mouth again, slowly, but this time, you slip a finger into his tight hole and watch it suck it in. Faster. You move. You add a second finger. You scissor them, you curl them, and he keens back against them. His brows are tight and his fists ball and un-ball. He has no sense of up or down, just that your mouth is hot and wet and that your fingers are brushing against that one spot and that he need need needs both of them so bad, so bad.  
“Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.” Flowers blossom behind his eyelids. Stars are crashing, burning, crackling with white light. He thrusts his hips, fucking your mouth and your fingers. Back and forth. Back and forth. Beto writhes. He moans and he gasps and he chokes on his sobs and he comes. He comes, and he spills waves into your waiting mouth as you keep sucking, keep pumping your fingers in and out of his clenching hole. Eventually, the supernova subsides into radio static. Beto looks down at you, his eyes like two cups spilling over with the most vehement love. Finally, release. Rest.  
“Good job, congressman,” you begin. “Now it’s my turn.”


End file.
